and filling stations you gotta hold the pump steady
something about driving west
over towns like mescaline
you sit cotton drew dressed loose skirt
drapes between legs and it is hot
today
take a coke and a smile
upper black eddy
jim thorpe
harpers ferry
bridges
there have to be bridges
railroad bridges do it best
when taking you to that stone arch tunnel
year stamped in concrete reminding us
always
someone else built this
you were still the dead unborn
concept of water
connecting mountains over this
water running through it all
but there is something about traveling west
especially when the dusk
and dust kicks like a storm and radio dials
ridged for thumb and finger stuggling to find a station
Stalking -
the modern way to show affection,
love, devotion,
mild interest,
hate,
anything
& everything inbetween.
Thank you for stalking
for taking the time.
Luring me here
inspiring me.
To stalk is to care...
what a wonderful world this is.
ONCE upon a time
grows up and becomes
as long as I can
no magic falls from stars
sprinkling solutions
like twilight dust
making way for night
which is not forgetful
but simply absent
like sleep sometimes
so we are grateful
for hours that skirt
the edge of memory
to knit a cloak of safe
purchase against dark
ONCE upon a time
was a fiction and we
wake to real days
carry care like stones
as long as I can
is not happily ever
after I lay this burden
somewhere between
the frayed seams
of stormy skies
and the waking Sun
without a spell or charm
but as long as I can
a promise
This... might not come out exactly as poetry, but I've not stayed up this long and sucked down so many cigarettes to let go of this crazed feeling. My blood is now a polluted stream of viciousness, so thick with caffeine, nicotine, zoloft and pure-d fucking hate for this world that's spawned all the shit floating in my veins that I could contaminate the all of existence just by popping a zit on my forehead. Had I any. I'll not check under the hat to satiate your curiosity, or mine. My hands are busy telling my fingers to get to work. I want to know where this goes, I want to see the end of this trail, and you're all fucking-well coming with me.
You're beautiful, and I love you all, but man I wish I could come on your faces. But I can't, so here I go. Jacked out of my mind on sleep-dep and mountain dew, cigarettes, anti-depressants and more cigarettes. I've got my north carolina hat on, to keep my hair out of my face and I've got my glasses on, the better to see you with. It's taken me less than three mintues to get this far, and the muscles in my arm already hurt and I still can't keep up. Wear your goggles and for God's saike, if anyy gets on you, hit it with bleach and get a shot. I feel a rumble in my lizard brain, a tremor in my poetic testes that I wish you could feel (In your poetic ovaries, should you lack the ability to comprehend a tremoring testicle) This may be rude, and I'm going to love it. I make no guarantees to quality or sense. Fuck you, I'm smoking.
~!~
If I could, I'd tear it all down, just to see what
kind of pictures the rubble would make
seen from above.
I want all the truth to blaze,
I want to see justice drop her blindfold
chop motherfuckers in half
with that sword she's
always leaning on.
The world should know you
fucked your girlfriend's best
friend
Traded bj's for more blow
Booger sugar stained with the
semen of the righteously right,
or whatever they call
themselves,
all tucked in,
sleeping the sleep
of the soundly blown.
Would you kiss a prostitute on
the mouth?
I would, because I love them.
Never been with one,
I think it's unethical.
They are beautiful
broken,
diseased, sometimes,
Brash, slightly proud
Stronger than I ever
would want to be.
Put your arm around a needle-freak
ask them if they want a cup
of coffee,
just to hear their story
in an all night diner
catering to the bent, sprained
broken people
who wander the cobblestones
they've been ground into.
The late night sneaky people
who never stop looking over
their shoulders
Never stop cringing, a little,
even when they tell you to
eat it.
What's your story?
I talk a lot about what I want -
I'm uniquely self-obsessed,
because the idea of being maybe
a little crazy
pleases me,
the same way dreaming about
angels wearing cutoffs
pleases me.
I give these dreams twenty-five points,
'cos I can dance to 'em, but
enough of me.
Are you loudly foolish and
quietly insane? Would you,
could you,
look someone in the eye
tell them all your secrets
the dirty stuff you don't tell anyone?
Soulful abortions
in little crying scenes
set in bathtubs
accompanied by the sound of
your boyfriend vomiting in the toilet
These things seem to sing you to sleep,
Ease you down into blackouttime,
where you hide from the pain.
She told me it was comforting.
How many times can you scrub
anything with salt and
isopropyl alcohol
before you really think it's clean?
I think this came back to me, again.
Deal. I'm 'haunted,'
or some
shit.
I'm not a poet, I'm just
another fucked up kid with a
keyboard, too much time
to sit and think. Bastard offspring
of so many parents,
whelped by an ugly beast
in heat with ideas staining
its loins.
I raised myself in front of a
piece of paper, sucking
the life out of pens,
bullshit ideas.
my guardians were pop-
culture icons,
who wanted to borrow
five dollars
and watch me get high,
handlers who never
fed me.
there ain't much food in the world
when they kick you outta highschool.
Ain't many jobs when you drop
outta college.
There's love in the world, though
Truth and beauty.
Personal responsibility.
You can't eat shit like that..
They do make it easier not to feel
such a waste of po-fucking-tential.
I was tossed out on my ass
for not believing they were right.
Thinking I was better than
busywork
and bell curves,
punching that jock in the balls
when he called me a faggot
for having long hair and not
liking rap.
I probably should've stopped after
a couple minutes
I couldn't.
If you don't leave with skin under
your fingernails
blood on your hands
they don't remember you.
Shit like that isn't pretty,
it doesn't dance
things like that can
only cavort,
little demon memories
that never get behind you,
just caper in front of your face
forever, spraypainting and spitting
on every lovely thing you
step around.
Right now, the sun is up
the trumpet vines
outside
are blooming red bells
with hummingbird bowties
and all I can think about is
how my daughter has
never heard my voice,
will never hear her father,
like I did,
and feel safe,
like I did.
You don't curse the ones you love
especially if you're the curse.
Her mother was right.
I wanted to name her
Evening,
after the color of ow
I felt about her,
when I first heard.
She was named
for spanish mountains.
The idea of it
makes me shake
until ashes flake down
on the ground.
Hat's pulled low,
down around my heart
sunglasses are on
like when I helped
change the guard
all night out at coffee.
Verbal duelists with spoons
sugar packets
worthless rhetoric.
I used to feel like Charlie,
from that series,
with geeky little comic
girls as my Angels
running behind me
angry vaginas at the
ready.
Fantasies are fun like that.
Now, hah!
Hah, and hah!
I'm trying not to drink
outwaiting the sunlight
thinking about the cost of
arrogance,
ill-use
stupid pride.
Which is worse, the fool
the fool that follows
or the fool that remains?
Those Fates are fickle ones,
bubble bubble, rack and ruin
stand in the shadow of trouble
and the rubble of plans drive
you something soon, but wax
wanes like night takes down
the fading Moon, puts it to bed
all hush till Eos rises radiant
relief and raindrops pirouette
from Sun. I learned that. Saturdays
across the sawdust talc floor,
tights, en pointe, en leotard,
pick a spot, focus, spin you
into something new and straight
ahead till morning's hinting autumn,
shut-down brilliance, time for plans
and gathering, a harvest at last
twilight drive drops a rainbow
hung like a varigated gauze flag
waving good night sweet dreams
Weather has no control over itself,
though, the meteorologist on channel seven does.
His mother-in-law has a yard sale this Saturday.
He smirks and changes sunny to thunderstorms.
"Gonna be raining all day, folks."
The weather man is gleeful.
He predicts clear skies
for his vacation next week.
rainbow food
quite by accident
after home boy licorice river silt pies, lets
pastel the meal
and cough up the mud-
hell,ankles gritty enough
and the wormers and the clammers are taking
bets on where you lost your shoes.
she showed me so much-
vital things
carrots and redpepper and purple cone flowers, jalapenos as red as baltimore sun, the green shocks of chard, stringy artichokes.
while heartworts and other weedy low crawlers-
tiny hidden medicinals,
are the most delicate of all.
He pulled me from my slumber
kissed my nose
curled my tongue
stroked my sides
worked me into a lather
burnished me with cloths of fleece
bound me with laces
then slipped inside
a well worn fit
and off we went
together
so maybe I don't want to be cleaned up
punch u ation blocks
straps tie me down to the line
scrubbed and polished can't see you for the glow
and rouge red deliciouls ruby red luscious
eyebrow
pluck
plucked show me where it starts
words clipped of wings
washed of shit crusted clod hopper falls in the shape
of waffle tread
buff and shine and buff
I miss the smell
high precisiion laser beams
reflect
interfere
project three d-minsional apple shot
paralax baby
all can see
none can taste
feel that crunch
but look rot and bruise free
cardboard cut out put it in your pocket
lock it for the day your eyes hunger for something
red
ignore the obscenity of a three dimensional image
on a 2 dimensional sheet
it starts with suggestion
move this switch that
are you
sure
this is yes
maybe
what we were saying
hollow milk sticky tupbes
not for straw drinking
but wouldnt you rather
taste that bitter
alkaline
suck it down
like the monarch
it seeps from your skin
no one will bite you now
dirty little poem
rough raw
without pattern or prediction
dont write a script and road maps for him
he nkows his way
just follow
that thing that you follow
damn flipped like a flap jack was not expecting own that either
put away that towel
let it soak in
let it soak in
catch my big old mess block and tackle
bobbing over the surface
but today no one is fooled
no one is convinced
and dont you miss that crunch and core
danger of the rotten spots
overdue for a dream come true
i know she feels that now
knobby knees
and walking shoes
chipped paint
on old doors
and new pinky nails
thresholds americana
mad hitchiking
avenues of the giants
lumber hewn
register rings
dont trip
first step is a doozie-
register rings
she has a sapphire nose thing
not guilty, am I? should have been you
up there on a pedestal, well, it kinda was
I still see your face in driveway sand
washed free from ancient sea beds
your smile in beetles feasting on
storm-weakened pines, needles browned
and falling, not unlike your thinning hair
I hear your voice in squeals of the red tail
circling above my home and feel your touch
as breeze-born kisses sent, all the way
from Tampa Bay, just go away!
Your tease and tempt and marriage sudden
you chose to treat me like a fool,
shame on you!
I intend to chop that pine tree down
as soon as I can find my axe,
My rake is waiting to absolve the ground
from influx of your thinning hair
and if there is a God, that red tail will choke
on a sour mouse ;D